As if dragged underwater by the mysterious spirit of the lake, Dean feels his lungs burning. Excruciatingly fast; and then, like a ship spit out onto the shore, he sighs. The vision comes together in small pieces, a game of mosaic and kaleidoscope—the world in front of him blooms again with colours of pastels and greens. It's been going on for days now—the ghostly touch of hands, a woman's silhouette bowing her head before him and whispering endlessly long serenades unknown to him.

Dean was used to dying, as fantastic as it sounded. Used to looking death in the eye, playing with it shamelessly selflessly, and smiling at the pursuers of childhood nightmares, knowing that the real nightmare is himself.

Now he feels like the world has welcomed him back. Falling down hurts, but getting up hurts worse. Dean knows this from his own rough experience, so he makes no attempt at first, just a rough, quick look around the room. Herbs tied with thin rope hang from the ceiling, swaying slightly under their weight; the cat lying at his feet on the bed looks up at him bored before jumping away, meowing audibly. He doesn't need much intelligence to solve the riddle; he only needs a hunch and a clue or two to recognise in the innocent trappings the witch's signs.

So when your figure appears in the doorway, along with that black as night itself cat, he only stares.

"Witch," he says, and out of habit his voice comes out hoarse and rumbling like a July thunderstorm. "It's too much effort spent to only kill me later, don't you think?"

You shake your head, allowing the familiar to return to the sheets he's warmed; Dean bristles.

"I wasn't going to."

"You all say that," he replies. When you approach him, he tenses even more. Despite the gratitude of his rescue and the soft, pleasantly cold tingle of your palms, he chooses not to trust your innocent face. "I've had enough of your arcane spells."

You look up at him silently—he lets it linger. Stretching between the sunshine rays, thick rope of tension sings.